Queen of Hearts
by firewaterspaceairearth
Summary: "Something has happened. What?" Mycroft has a case for the two men, one which was solved four years ago. But a woman has been found dead, with only a cryptic note similar to those found four years ago. Once again, lives depend on Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and a mysterious pack of cards.
1. Queen's Chess

_If you recognise it, it's not mine._

* * *

Sherlock was standing at the window, calmly playing his violin. Loudly. John's phone buzzed in his pocket, the ringtone drowned out by the violin.

"Hello?"

_"Would you tell my brother to answer the door?"_

Before John could reply, the call cut off. John crossed to the window. Sure enough, Mycroft Holmes was stood on the pavement, glaring up at Sherlock. "Sherlock," John tried sternly. The taller man ignored him.

"Sherlock!" A high-pitched, screeching note echoed through the room. John clamped his hands over his ears, glaring at his flatmate. Sherlock shrugged and went back to playing. John tugged the bow out of his hand, tossing it aside onto the windowsill.

_"Sherlock Holmes!"_ he could hear Mycroft shouting from the street. Mrs Hudson popped her head in the door.

"There's someone at the door, Sherlock. Shall I let them in?"

"No."

John subtly stood on his foot and nodded politely at Mrs Hudson.

"That would be really helpful, thanks."

A few minutes later, Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway. Sherlock reclaimed his bow and went back to playing. John moved over to the politician, hand outstretched.

"I'm awfully sorry, he's in one of those moods. Personally, I think he's just bored-"

"Indeed," Mycroft said icily. "I think that I have something which should hold his attention for a while."

The three men sat at opposite ends of the couch and armchair. Mrs Hudson had brought a pot of tea, which neither brother had touched. John set down his cup on the coffee table with a clunk.

"Mycroft, what is this new case you say you have?" John said in an effort to break the silence.

"It's the Patricia Denby case," Sherlock said, his tone bored and unimpressed. Mycroft kept his features straight. John blinked.

"Oh, come on, it's _obvious_. You have a case for me, which you only do if it's one which you can't fathom yourself. As it's you, and not Lestrade, this is a case which the police aren't involved with, or not yet, anyway. Either a brand new case or one which was finished a long time ago. A long time ago, because while you were standing outside you were holding a reciept from Queen's Chess, a clothing boutique which closed down four years ago. It closed down because the manager was involved in a scandal, based around the writing of cryptic threats. The police got involved and closed the case within a couple of days. Patricia Denby moved away from the area, but judging by the mud on your shoes, recent mud, not too far. The only area which has had rain recently but less than an hour by train, otherwise the mud would have completely dried and begun to flake off, is Woolwich, or thereabouts. Train? You have somebody's number in your back pocket on a piece of the TFL branded paper. Patricia Denby moved to the Woolwich area four years ago, and you've found her, and something has happened. What?"

John stared at Sherlock in amazement. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Oh, don't look so annoyed. I just saved you ten minutes explaining. What's the case?"

Mycroft pulled a plastic evidence bag out of his pocket. In it was a pen, a collection of pieces of paper and a photo of a slim blonde woman. Sherlock discarded the photo, skimmed through the notes and began to study the pen intensely. John picked up the picture, trying to imitate his friend's viewpoint. All he discerned was that she dyed her hair, and was fairly attractive. Not his type, though. He put down the photo and reached for the notes. There were twelve altogether, all in the same slightly cramped handwriting. They were written on the back of cards. Hearts, all of them. He flicked through them. The only one missing was the Queen of Hearts. The notes seemed to make no sense whatsoever.

_'I suppose you don't want to lose your name?'_

_'The prettiest are always further.'_

_'They wouldn't answer at all, if they were wise.'_

_'It takes all the running you can do, just to stay in the same place.'_

_'Still she haunts me phantomwise.'_

_'You'd go out- bang!- just like a candle.'_

_'You may try it if you like.'_

_'The question is which is to be master.'_

_'In a wonderland they lie, dreaming as the days go by.'_

_'Even if you tried with both hands.'_

_'To be able to see Nobody!'_

_'You see nobody would ever say anything.'_

John frowned.

"How are these threats? They don't even make sense."

Mycroft's face darkened.

"Because soon after finding one, people were found dead. The police could never find out what caused it."

John nodded. Sherlock slipped the pen into his pocket, snatching the cards from John's hands. He rifled through them, shuffling them into different orders. Mycroft nodded, a satisfied smirk flashing over his face.

"Don't you want to hear the rest?" he asked, pulling another card from his pocket.

"Patricia Denby was found dead this morning. With this."

Sherlock took the card. It made as much sense as the other twelve did.

_'One thing was certain, that the white kitten had nothing to do with it. It was the black kitten's fault entirely.'_

As Sherlock whisked out of the room, nodding for the other two to follow, the thirteenth card fell next to the teacups and pot. It was the Queen of Hearts.

* * *

Sherlock knelt next to the dead woman, taking her hand in his. He rummaged through her pockets, pulling out a pen and a diary. John looked on in amazement as he stood up a few minutes later after taking a few photos on his phone, and walked out of the room.

"I'll need to borrow this pen," he called. John went after him, sending an apologetic shrug in Mycroft's general direction. When he caught up with the taller man, Sherlock was almost sprinting along the street, shouting for a taxi.

"Sherlock!" John yelled above the sounds of London traffic. He reached out and grabbed the taller man's coat, dragging him to a halt. Sherlock whirled round, eyes flashing.

"Sherlock, what the hell is going on?"

"Patricia Denby didn't write those notes."

John steered him towards the nearest taxi, telling the driver to take them back to Baker Street.

"Ok. How do you know?" By now, he'd figured out that the best way of doing things was to let Sherlock ramble on, then explain it more coherently on his blog later. Sherlock rested a scrap of paper on the back of a magazine left in the cab, retrieving the two pens from his pocket.

"Look. They're almost identical, cheap make, black ink, with this band of rubber designed to be a grip."

The pens were indeed identical. Sherlock picked up one of them, scribbling a line on the paper.

"This was found along with the last note, four years ago. See the nail marks in the rubber? Somebody used this pen regularly, holding it tightly in the same place. They eventually left indentations in the rubber."

John nodded. Sherlock continued, picking up the second pen.

"This is different. There are no marks in the rubber. But the pen's been used a lot, most of the ink's used up. Part of that might be to do with the crack in the tip here. A crack which would leak ink as the person wrote, if they held it just there, and not on the grip." He pulled his phone out, showing John a photo of the dead woman's hand. Dark ink smudges stood out against the pale skin of the tips of her fingers. Sherlock scribbled another line on the paper, before showing John his hand. Sure enough, ink had leaked onto his fingertips.

"The handwriting is an excellent copy. But they don't hold their pen the same way. Somebody else framed and killed Patricia Denby. Somebody else wrote the notes, but why?"

John stared at him incredulously. "That's incredible."

Sherlock sat in thought for several minutes. Eventually, as the cab pulled up outside 221B Baker Street, he sat bolt upright.

"John," he said, dark eyes flashing dangerously, "I have made a very big mistake."

"What? Sherlock, wait!"

"Where are the notes? Quickly!"

"On the table, we left them- Sherlock, what's going on?"

Sherlock had already sprinted into the house. Mrs Hudson was bent over the coffee table, reaching for the notes. Sherlock swept them away, storming through the room.

"Sherlock? Is everything ok?"

John charged into the room, grabbing his friend by the shoulder. Sherlock stumbled to a halt, glaring fiercely at him.

"They aren't notes! They're clues! Somebody is playing cat and mouse with us! And I've been stupid, John. I have been so, so_ stupid_. I've almost let them win."

Mrs Hudson stared. Of all of Sherlock's outbursts, this was by far one of the most rambling. He shuffled through the notes again, sniffing them carefully. Instantly, his eyes glazed over and he swayed on his feet.

"Sherlock!"

John rushed to his side, catching his elbow. Sherlock shrugged him off, waving a hand in front of his face.

"A strong sophorific, then," he said, briskly stuffing the cards in a plastic bag. He strode towards the door. Mrs Hudson watched, completely astonished. John went after him.

"John, what's going on?"

John turned briefly.

"Quite honestly, I really don't know."

Sherlock was hailing a taxi by the time John got out. He climbed in after his friend.

"So, would now be a good time to explain what's going on?"

Sherlock blinked, as if still clearing whatever had been in the cards from his head.

"The cards were imbued with a strong sophorific, deadly amounts. When somebody found the note, and picked up the card, they inhaled the gas. No marks, just dead. Like an overdose of sleeping pills, except it leaves no trace. Just a card. But why? Who?"

"Deadly? You aren't going to die- are you?"

"No, it's mostly worn off after four years in police custody."

John frowned.

"But what about the Queen? That was only found today, right?"

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively.

"That isn't what killed Patricia Denby. If it was, Mycroft and anyone else who'd been near it would have been affected."

The taxi stopped outside a row of shops. Sherlock jumped out and walked silently down the street. When John caught up with him, he had stopped outside a boarded up shop. The sign was cracked and faded, paint peeling off, but the words were still just legible. _Queen's Chess clothing and accessories_. Sherlock darted through a small alley at the side of the building, glancing at the boarded up windows. Suddenly, he grabbed a rock and hurled it at the thin planks. They splintered under the force. Shards of glass and wood fell to the ground.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?"

Sherlock paused on the edge of the windowsill.

"What I usually do."

He vaulted in gracefully. John clambered after him, doing his best to avoid the splinters. Sherlock was standing in the centre of a dust-covered room, sheet-covered shapes everywhere.

"Where are you!" he shouted. There was no reply. He turned in the room.

"Where are you! This is where you've been hiding, where you've been managing this entire... what is it? A game, a project? I know what you've done! I've followed the clues- oh. The clues." He drew in a deep sigh, pulling the bag of cards from his pocket.

"There's still clues to follow, aren't there? You're not through playing yet."

He rifled through the cards.

"There's something linking them, but what? What, what, what? The key, the key to this whole thing- what is it?"

John watched, dumbfounded, as he muttered to himself.

"Kittens, Nobody, losing your name, wonderland- that's it!"

"Sherlock? What's it?"

Sherlock whirled to face him, brandishing the cards.

"They're quotes, John- quotes from a book. It all makes sense now- the suit of cards, Hearts. The key's Alice in Wonderland!" He paused, looking around the room.

"The white kitten had nothing to do with it, it was the black kitten's fault entirely- I was right. Patricia Denby had nothing to do with it. She was just a pawn, in this game. But there's something else. This killer is deliberately leading us on, trying to make us follow them- down the rabbit hole, so to speak. Where is the hole? Where is it?"

He began to strip sheets from the room, revealing empty clothing racks, a display table, and finally a long mirror fastened to the wall.

"Of course," he breathed. John frowned in confusion.

"Sherlock, what is it? It's just a mirror..."

"Since when, John," Sherlock whispered, stepping forward and tugging at the mirror, "would a mirror have hinges?" It swung outwards, revealing a staircase descending down, below the shop.

"It all makes sense now, John. We have to go through the Looking Glass."

He stepped onto the stairs. They were thickly coated with dust. Swallowing thickly, John followed him. They climbed down, into the dark cellar, and suddenly a light flicked on. A woman turned to face them, matted black hair covering her face.

"Alice, I presume?" Sherlock said evenly. The woman threw back her head and laughed, a high pitched, manic cackle.

"Oh, I was being so clever, so clever, so clever," she crowed. Then she levelled her gaze, shaking her head at the two men.

"But you was more cleverer, you was. You was cleverer than I, you was. The Red Queen, is I, the Red Queen of Hearts. And you is late, Sherlock Holmes. You is late for a very, very important date."


	2. On Off On Off

_If you recognise it, it's not mine._

* * *

The mad woman wandered around the room. Her dress, patched and worn, rustled through piles of smashed china- teacups, John realised, spotting a handle- and books, hundreds of copies of Alice in Wonderland. Sherlock tracked her movements, scanning the room.

"What happened to your daughter?" he said abruptly.

"What is you meaning?"

"The photo, on the shelf. It's of a girl who looks exactly like you, except she's about twenty years younger. She's holding a phone which was first brought out five years ago, so she can't be you, therefore you have a daughter. If you had a daughter, you wouldn't be down here, cackling and killing, so you don't anymore. Either she's dead, or you don't care about her. If you didn't care about her, why have a photo? She's dead, died around four years ago, turns the grief-stricken mother, already mentally unstable, into a full blown scheming killer. Why Alice in Wonderland?"

The woman stumbled to a stop in front of him.

"You want to talk about mine Alice? You is being very very dangerous, Sherlock Holmes. I is not talking about mine Alice. Is no. Is impossible."

"Why, I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast," Sherlock shot back. The woman gasped, but then something hardened in her expression. Her hand flew out as if she was to slap Sherlock, and paused an inch from his face.

"Fine, then, Sherlock Holmes. I will tells you about mine Alice, I will. She dead, she is. But no Jabberwocky taken her, no, no, no. She takens by the drugs, the little pills and powders, and she gone now, she is. With all the others, oh yes. In a wonderland they lie, dreaming as the days go by. And I, Queen of Hearts, I taken them! They come into the shop, they do, they do! And I am hiding down here, down my rabbit hole, through my looking glass, and I is hearing them, and they is beginning to sound like mine Alice. And mine Alice gone, gone, gone. They not Alices, they gone, gone too! They have the cards, they do, they try it, you may try it if you like! The pretty girls, they are, they are far away, but I is finding them and I is taken them. And they come to me, they all do! I is seeing them! I is trying and I is trying to touch them, with both hands, but they is not there, no they is not! I is seeing Nobody! And mine Alice, she be still there, she is, she is. And I is dreaming her and not dreaming her away, because then I is out, out like the candle!"

She raised her arms into the air, eyes wide and expectant. John looked from her to Sherlock.

"She's completely mad, Sherlock. We need to get out of here."

Sherlock ignored him, retaining his focus on the woman.

"And then, oh, and then, the white kitten she nearly find me! I is needing to run, but I is running in the same place, and she is staying too! So I is very clever again. I is making her the Red Queen, and she is the one who is taken them all. And she goes, she goes far far away, and now there is just me and mine Alice, there is. But then you is coming and I is hearing, and mine Alice is hearing about you and they all go, the not-Alices. You is the Knave of Hearts, Sherlock Holmes, you is taken them all away! But I is starting again, again. I is sending the present to the white kitten, I is, and she is gone! She is gone! Drink me, drink me, drink me! And now the white kitten is gone, and nobody can ever say anything!"

John looked at Sherlock again, more fearfully.

"I don't understand. What does she mean, drink me? And white kitten?"

"Patricia Denby, remember? She was an alcoholic. She was sent a bottle of poisoned whisky."

"An alcoholic? How-"

"Details, John. We are in a cellar with a madwoman obsessed with a children's storybook. Now is not the time for you to question my logic."

John nodded.

"It was because of the skirting board, by the way," Sherlock whispered. John, lacking a better method, kicked him in the shin.

"And now you is here, Sherlock Holmes. And you is too clever, and you is finishing my game now."

She cocked her head to one side, as if listening to somebody intently. Then she smiled.

"I is thinking you is right, mine Alice. They is knowing too much nows, isn't they? We is needing to make them gone, isn't we, mine Alice. Yes, they's come and been too clever, spoilt the Red Queen's games, they has. We is needing to make them gone, gone, mine Alice."

"Sherlock," John whispered, eyes fixed on the staircase behind them, "it sounds like she wants to kill us. Does she?"

Sherlock stared the woman down, analysing every movement in her body.

"She's mad," he said.

"I know that!" John hissed in frustration.

"It's a fight, between her and the insanity. And right now, probably for a very long time, the insanity has been mastering her."

"Sherlock, how are we going to get out?"

The taller man had stepped over a pile of ripped pages, away from John. He sniffed the air, eyes darting round the room.

"John," he muttered, tone low and cautious, "can you smell gas?"

The mad woman suddenly leapt away from them, rummaging through a pile of rags. She waved a small lighter in the air.

"Yes, yes, yes, mine Alice! We is going to make it very burning, oh yes. We is, we is, we is. Oh yes, we is burning Knave and his friend, oh yes, oh yes."

Sherlock stepped towards her, eyes never leaving the lighter.

"Who are you?"

"Is is Red Queen, Knave Sherlock Holmes. Is mine Alice and Red Queen only now!"

"Your name! Who are you?"

"I is Red Queen, Red Queen of Hearts! But before... Before..." She sank to the floor, a pile of rags among scattered piles of broken china.

"Before, but I is not knowing. Mine Alice, who is I? Mine Alice, mine Alice, I is needing you tells me, who I is!" Her voice rose to a scream, tears beginning to streak her face.

"Mine Alice, gives me backs mine name! I is lost my name! Mine Alice, mine Alice, where is you putting my name? You is putting my name on the big table, and I is still little, mine Alice, I is needing the cake to see my name! Mine Alice, _please_!"

Her shaking hands rose to her face, grabbing and pulling at her hair, all the time continuing her plea to the girl long dead.

"Mine Alice, mine Alice, please! You is taking me through glass and down hole, and I is needing to go back! Mine Alice!"

She was still holding the lighter.

"John, run," Sherlock said, not looking away from the woman.

"Sherlock-"

"Run! Get out, now!" He took another step towards the woman on the floor. Suddenly her head snapped up. A dark smile crept over her features.

"Is time, now, mine Alice. You is very alive nows, yes. You is not gone, not gone, not gone. I is wanting you gone, gone, gone. Gone!"

The lighter gleamed in the harsh light. Sherlock stepped forward carefully, reaching out for it. She jerked it away.

"Oh, no, no, no, Knave! I is needing this! It comes hissing in, and I is going to make it burn!"

John's gaze flickered between the stairs, the lighter and Sherlock. The woman shuffled towards the wall, stumbling and muttering. Too late, Sherlock realised what she was trying to do.

"John," he murmured, as the lights began to flicker, "Run. Now. Get up the stairs, get as far away as possible."

_On. Off. On. Off. On_. In the flashes of light, John caught glimpses of Sherlock striding towards her, the lighter still in her hand.

"John," _Off._ "Get out," _On._ "Now!"

John stumbled to the foot of the steps, feet unwillingly taking him there.

"No, no! I is needing to burn, burn Knave, burn the Wonderland! I is needing to burn mine Alice gone, gone, gone! Is dark and light, is night and day! Is dreaming and waking!"

"Sherlock! There's nothing you can do, let's just_ get out_!"

Sherlock's eyes glanced at the mad woman with a strange light in them. _Off. On. Off. On_. She kept flicking the light switch.

"Life," he whispered, barely loud enough for John to catch it, "What is it but a dream?"

Then Sherlock Holmes turned away from the woman, staggering through the mess on the floor towards John. With a final click, the lights went off. One second. Two seconds. Three- _"Run!"_

The two men scrambled up the stairs. Behind them, the cellar ignited, a wave of flame chasing them up the stairs. They crashed through the looking glass door, piling through the broken window and round into the street.

"Get back, now!" John shouted to the few pedestrians. A second later, the entire front of Queen's Chess burst into flame. Sherlock turned on his heel, and walked away. He paused on the crossroads and began trying to hail a cab, seemingly unaware that the end of his coat was smouldering.

* * *

"-and I'll just top up your cup, Sherlock, goodness knows you need it after your funny turn earlier. Have you heard the news? That little boutique on March Street, Queen's something or other, it's been blown up! I heard it from Mrs Turner next door, and she heard it from her nephew- he's in the fire service. I remember just thinking 'That'll be something to do with my boys' because you do get into scrapes like that sometimes, don't you? Really, I think you should stick with nice quiet murder investigations, none of these chases with cards and whatnot. Would you like another biscuit, John?" Mrs Hudson paused from fussing to wave the tin of digestives at John. Sherlock placed his untouched tea back in the saucer.

"Mrs Hudson, there's someone at the door. Would you care to answer it?"

"I haven't heard anything-"

"Any second now."

A brisk knock was heard. Mrs Hudson stood and left the room, heels clicking on the stairs. John leant across the table towards Sherlock.

"Are you ok? You seem different. You're being really quiet, which would normally be great, but it's not normal quiet, like when you're in a huff with Anderson or whatever. Is everything ok?"

Sherlock stood up, reaching for his coat.

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

Mrs Hudson bustled back into the room, followed by Lestrade. The DI glanced around, eyes alighting on the biscuit tin.

"Sherlock, what the hell did you do to March Street?"

Sherlock ignored him, tying his scarf round his neck.

"Sherlock!"

"Why don't you ask John? Or you could wait for him to type it up on his blog, I'm sure he has a title in mind already."

Lestrade opened his mouth, but Sherlock had already swept out of the room. They heard the door slam, and John leant over to the window to see Sherlock striding down Baker Street, coat fluttering in the wind.

"He's mad, that one," Mrs Hudson said, pouring Lestrade a cup of tea. "A lovely boy, but still. Mad as a hatter."

* * *

_In a Wonderland they lie, _

_Dreaming as the days go by, _

_Dreaming as the summers die:_

_Ever drifting down the stream-_

_Lingering in the golden gleam- _

_Life, what is it but a dream?_


End file.
